The Singing Hills
by Morena Evensong
Summary: Stiles and his friends understood the consequences for saving their parents' lives - at least they thought they did. A message offers Stiles answers and unexpected allies - with even more unexpected friends who take Stiles on a journey to show him that his 'spark' may not be magic, but might just be everything they need. And Darkness isn't always bad. TW season 3A compliant
1. Chapter 1

Warning: This story takes place directly after season 3A, therefore be warned it contains spoilers. It's meant as a sort of potential 3B - or, I suppose an alternative to whatever 3B will be. I'm fairly certain this is not the direction Jeff Davis plans on taking the show, but the point is that he could. This, believe it or not, includes the crossover.

Knowledge of BBC's _Merlin_ is not strictly necessary for this story, I don't think. The crossover is minor, but is still an important part of the story. I had actually debated over not making this a crossover and just creating an original character to take Merlin's place... but Merlin just fits this story so perfectly that I left the idea as is. I also apologize in advance for any mistakes or inaccuracies in my depictions of either alchemy or Native American lore - I have done some research, but will be adapting some of it to suit the purposes of this story. My goal is to capture the spirit of both even if not all my facts are 100% accurate. Having said that, if there's anyone out there with any actual knowledge of Native American lore - particularly from the California region - I'd love to chat and potentially pick your brain for details if you're willing.

Disclaimer: I own the plot idea, but nothing more. The rest belongs to MTV and the BBC.

This story is unbetaed, so let me know if there's anything particularly glaring.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It had taken him days to crawl his way out of the depths of the forest. His neck stung where sharp wire had cut into it and throbbed where a sharp blade had cut it open, while the side of his head felt like a bomb had detonated inside his cranium. No, was still detonating - at some sort of slow-motion rate of infinitesimal decay. Which didn't make any sense whatsoever. Gods above his head hurt! Every step he took was agony, sheer willpower the only thing moving him through the continuous energy drain that connected him to the Nemeton. To her.

That bitch. To think he'd taken pity on her and helped her when so many would've simply run away screaming. He'd kept her secrets, was willing to help her plan her revenge. Apparently he'd missed a few things. By the time he'd finally figured it out she was with the Wolf and his scent would've been noticed. He'd thought he had time; hadn't expected her to come for him. To _use him_.

He took some ounce of satisfaction out of knowing that her power was only skin-deep. Otherwise, she would've known he hadn't died. Or rather, would've known a long time ago that he _couldn't_ die. He'd met scores of powerful magic users – real magic not just sparks and prayers – and she wasn't one of them.

He didn't bother going back to his home. By now he'd likely been officially listed as 'missing' and his house put under surveillance even if that only referred to the nosey old lady next door. Instead he headed to the small shack he owned just at the edge of the forest, one large tree grove away from the boundary of the Hale property. He'd bought it years ago under a different false alias in order to conduct some of his more... exotic experiments. He had supplies, a change of clothes there and a cot. Most importantly, however, she didn't know about it.

Exhausted, he fell onto the cot. The steady draining of his life force was like a sharp burning throughout his body, as though the desert sun had taken residence there and was trying it damnedest to melt his bones from within. It wasn't the worst pain he'd ever felt, but it had been quite some time since he'd felt anything remotely close.

He wasn't certain how much time had passed before the burning agony abated enough for him to drag himself upright and teeter over to the heavy stone bowl on the far side of the room. It was already two-thirds full of water. Taking a large milky white crystal off the shelf above the bowl, he placed it carefully into the water until it was completely submerged. Then he held his hand just above the water's surface and said the familiar incantation with an unsteady, raspy voice. The water shimmered and then stilled.

He cursed and tried again, wincing at the pain in his throat. The same happened. He sighed and grabbed onto the table to steady himself. When the dizziness passed, he looked out the window and blinked into the darkness. Ah, it was nighttime; she was probably sleeping. His eyes landed on the small desktop calendar sitting on the window sill. He closed his eyes and groaned. Of course, the date... Merlin would be at the Lake right now. He never missed an anniversary.

With a deep sigh, he grabbed a handful of dried pansy and zinnia petals and threw them into the water. Hopefully, the message would be heard. He moved slowly towards the door, feeling like a an old man whose body was two steps away from giving up. And yet he managed to pick up the aluminum pail from beside the door and walk over to the pump to fill it. He had a generator at the back of the shack, but no running water. Instead, his water came from deep beneath the earth. It was good water.

He'd managed to clean himself and cover up the worst of the wounds at his neck when the agony returned, ripping a scream from his abused throat. He heard something fall to the ground and shatter. He followed it shortly.

His last thought before the waves of stinging, leeching pain enveloped him was that he sincerely hoped he hadn't underestimated the children when he left them the clue to follow.

* * *

Stiles sat on the lacrosse bench munching on chocolate chip cookies and waiting for his best friend to show up. Because contrary to how things may appear, he and Scott were still best friends. Didn't matter that Scott had grown a curly-haired shadow that went by the name Issac: nope he and Scott were bros. Best buds, nothing could ever come between them. Like, ever.

Especially with Allison no longer being his girlfriend. At the moment. Actually, she seemed to be spending a lot of time hanging out with Issac. Stiles wasn't quite sure what that was about, because some days it almost seemed like Issac had a crush on Scott. Except with a distinct lack of hot steamy looks full of longing and desire... Unless werewolves did that differently. Maybe they just let off some sort of pheromones or something in order to lure in prospective, er, mates. In which case, he supposed it would be Scott who was sending out pheromones, although knowing Scott it would also likely entirely unintentional because that sounded like too nefarious a plot for his best friend's mind. Speaking of which, where the hell was Scott anyway?!

Stiles took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. He sighed. His bested bud in the whole wide world was running ten minutes late. And hadn't bothered to message him. Fantastic.

Stiles reached into his bag and grabbed another cookie. He glared in the direction of the school, willing Scott to come bounding out, sheepish grin on his face and excuse on his lips. And Stiles already knew that no matter how annoyed he was right now, he'd already forgiven the damn idiot of a best friend. Not that he would tell him that.

He just wished the silence didn't make the Darkness around his heart resonate more strongly. Darkness the wrong word for it. It implied that something had been added, but to Stiles it felt more like there was a hollow space around his heart – as though something were missing. Sometimes, in the dead of night it almost felt like a black hole, patiently swirling around waiting for the right moment to suck him through... To where, Stiles wasn't sure, but he knew Scott felt it too. They'd talked and the new alpha had said thinking about his friends and being connected to the pack helped him ignore it. Which, okay yeah, Stiles agreed that being surrounded by people – by his friends – helped.

Except that he didn't feel the connection Scott did. If anything, he felt more disconnected than ever. No matter who was with him or how well they were getting on, it always felt like he was one step further away from them than he should be. Like he'd come back from the ritual just slightly out-of-phase with the rest of the world.

It sucked, but Stiles refused to regret it. His father was alive and the alternative... No. There _was_ no alternative, had been no other possible choice to make.

Suddenly there was a flurry of movement to his left and something dark appeared mere inches away from his face. Stiles cried out in surprise and fumbled his phone, nearly dropping it between the bleachers. Once he had a tight grip on the device again, he swung 'round to... blink at the empty space beside him.

"Okay, what the-"

Something chirped. Stiles looked down. A pair of small brown eyes blinked back at him innocently and then the bird hopped forward. It was chubby and roughly the size of Stiles' fist with black colouring on its head, a pink beak and white belly. The rest of it was brown and black with what looked like two white stripes running horizontally across its folded wings. It actually looked a bit like a sparrow, only bigger.

"Huh?" was the only thing he could think of to say to the bird. It chirped at him and craned his neck, looking alternatively at him and then the bag behind him expectantly. Then it hopped backwards twice and burst into a short string of melodic chirping.

Stiles raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Sooo... you're either trying to sing for your supper or Timmy's stuck down a well." He reached back into his bag and pulled out a cookie. "Too bad for Timmy I don't speak birdese, so I'll just sort of assume you're hungry."

He crumbled the cookie into smaller pieces and scattered them onto the bench. The bird hopped forward again and began to eagerly devour them. Stiles watched the bird for a few minutes in bemusement. The situation was just too surreal for words. Eventually he just shook his head.

"Great, this just figures," he muttered under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair. "My best friend gets turned into a werewolf and I'm turning into freakin' Snow White."

The bird chirped and Stiles looked back to it. It was standing over the remains of the cookie looking very happy.

"Yeah, you're welcome, buddy. Just don't make a habit of it, 'cause next time I might actually freak out."

Then the bird spread its wings and flew off. Stiles watched it go and chuckled. Well, that had certainly been strange. He turned back to brush the remaining crumbs off the bench and froze, frowning.

There was a folded piece of paper sitting in the spot where the bird had just taken off from. Stiles looked around, but couldn't see anyone except for a small group of students trying to inconspicuously smoke by the corner of the school building. Slowly, he reached for the paper and then unfolded it.

_Mister Stilinski, _

_I suspect you know that the Beacon is becoming active. However, I doubt you realize exactly what that entails. We have much to discuss. Meet me at the old water purification plant tomorrow at one. Come alone. If you do not, then I shall walk away and you will never find me. _

_Your potential is being wasted and unfortunately, it will be needed to face what is coming. Don't be more of a fool than you usually are._

The note was unsigned, which didn't surprise Stiles in the slightest. It was, however, hand written. The handwriting looked familiar: precisely-formed, rounded letters that looked slightly feminine, although Stiles had the feeling the writer wasn't a woman. They also clearly knew him. They knew him well enough, in fact, to know that dangling a mystery and threatening to never give any answers was more likely to get them the results they clearly wanted than threatening to hurt anyone.

Or here was a thought: maybe the person _knew_ his friends were werewolves and therefore knew he couldn't hurt them anyway. However, they'd have to be able to hide from them or detect them if they were nearby... Stiles' right knee was bouncing a staccato rhythm and he could feel the familiar thrum of excitement in his veins. He had a puzzle to solve. And the note didn't feel threatening: mildly insulting, sure, but there wasn't any actual threat anywhere in the words.

Wasted potential: was this person talking about his so-called 'spark'? Did he – they, Stiles reminded himself he didn't have any evidence to prove this was a man – know about his spark? Okay, so definitely someone who'd been around him. Wait, were they indicating they were willing to teach him to use his spark? But Deaton had said the Darkness made it impossible.

It occurred to Stiles that maybe he should at least be debating the merits of not going to meet this person. Except he had no reason not to really – apart from the obvious trap-like quality of the meeting. Tomorrow was Saturday and lacrosse practise was in the morning so he'd have plenty of time to – wait. Did this person know he had Saturday morning lacrosse practise?!

This person was starting to sound more like a creepy stalker by the second.

"Stiles!"

Stiles' head shot up at the sound of his name. He scowled at the approaching group. "You're late, Scotty!" he called even as he folded up the note and shoved it into the corner of his bag.

Issac, the twins and Danny all followed behind him and Stiles suddenly realized he wasn't really in the mood for lacrosse anymore. The note was burning a hole through his backpack and his hands were itching to grab his laptop and get researching.

"Sorry," said Scott sheepishly with his usual boyish grin before launching into a story involving ice, balloons and the new chemistry teacher.

Stiles sighed, not really listening. The training would no doubt turn into a wolf party and Scott, Issac and Danny certainly didn't need him to teach the twins how to play lacrosse. He'd just slip away when they weren't paying attention.

* * *

Stiles parked his jeep into the shade behind a dense cluster of trees. It wasn't that it was illegal to be here, but his car was recognizable to every member of the sheriff's department and he didn't particularly feel like explaining this to his father. Not yet anyway. His father was being super cool with his new knowledge about the less human side of Beacon Hills – except for the part where it was sort of really dangerous and his son was involved.

The old water purification plant was at the edge of town accessible by what was now a narrow, overgrown stretch of badly-cracked paved road that branched off from a side road running west out of the city and alongside the far end of the preserve. It wasn't used much since it was faster to get to the highway by using the road that ran through the preserve – and it was better maintained.

Stiles waded his way through knee-deep grass until he reached the visitor parking. It was a gravel-lined rectangular area large enough to fit about five cars just off the long paved road that lead up to the plant. A tree had fallen across its entrance during some windstorm or other making it now inaccessible by car. Stiles climbed over the low wooden railing lining the lot and began to cross it, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Wind blew across the derelict parking lot and through tall wire fencing into the silent plant. Overgrown greenery rustled.

Somewhere in the tree line, a crow called. Less than a minute later, its call was answered. Stiles wondered if it was crow-speak for 'Hey honey what's for lunch?' (with the reply being 'I don't know, what've you scavenged?"). Except possibly more sinister, because crows always sounded slightly sinister.

He looked around, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the mysterious note-sender. He'd been up for hours researching and then hours more wide awake with thoughts running through his head faster than Superman's speeding bullet. He had a conclusion, a possible answer – a theory you could call it – but it defied all logic. Or rather, the evidence pointed towards something that shouldn't be possible given previous evidence. Except that there was always the possibility that the evidence wasn't actually evidence but an assumption...

His brain was seriously starting to hurt. Lack of sleep wasn't helping either and he'd been an absolute mess at practise. He wondered what the odds were that Coach Finstock wouldn't hold it against him when it came time to pick the starting line. Probably not good.

Something soft smacked him across the right cheek and Stiles cried out, jumped and flailed his limbs in surprise. He felt soft pinpricks embedding themselves into his right shoulder and turned his head. The bird on his shoulder chirped at him. Stiles blinked. It was the same one that had brought him the message yesterday. He knew this for a fact, because he's spent several hours and three cokes trying to figure out what sort of bird it was.

Behind him, he heard the tell-tale crunch of gravel as someone walked up behind him. Stiles froze. The foot steps stopped several feet away. He took a deep breath. He was almost certain he was right. Scott might be the one with the super planning skills lately, but research was still Stiles' territory. There was only one thing that didn't make sense-

"How?" said Stiles loud enough for the person behind him to hear. "It's the only part I don't get. How are you alive?"

"You aren't surprised it's me," a familiar smooth voice answered him.

Stiles let out the breath he'd been holding and shrugged. The bird on his shoulder squawked in protest at the movement and Stiles raised his left hand to gently pet its belly as a silent apology. "You wanted me to figure it out," he said. "The note was, like, a test or something. I thought I recognized the handwriting, but couldn't place it at first. And then there's this little guy."

Stiles turned to face the man. "I didn't recognize him, so I turned to google. Turns out he ain't native to California. In fact he's quite a bit farther south than usual. He's a Harris' sparrow."

Dressed in blue jeans and dark blue turtle neck, his usual disdainful look of superiority on his face, Adrian Harris nodded at Stiles. "Very good, Mister Stilinski. I'm glad to see you are capable of applying yourself and your intellect when necessary."

* * *

A/N: Adrian Harris has always struck me as one of those 'more than meets the eye' characters. Now if only I can get him to stop sounding like Severus Snape when I write him...


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the feedback guys! I'm glad there are people excited about the prospect of a Merlin/TW crossover. :)

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_Dressed in blue jeans and a blue turtle neck, his usual disdainful look of superiority on his face, Adrian Harris nodded at Stiles. "Very good, Mister Stilinski. I'm glad to see you are capable of applying yourself and your intellect when necessary."_

"Ah gee thanks, coming from you that's almost sweet," Stiles deadpanned.

Harris crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a pointed look. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Mister Stilinski. I am rather disappointed that 'how?' is the best question you could come up with having figured out it was me."

Stiles blinked. "What do you mean? It's a perfectly logical question!" He threw his hands out and then winced as the sparrow nipped his earlobe in irritation. "Okay, so looking back I get that there were clues that you weren't entirely dead - not that worrying about that was even close to being a priority with everything that was going on. But I didn't remember until last night that while Deaton was the one explaining stuff, you were actually the one who'd left us the 'Darach' clue. Which made me realize that, unlike most of the bodies, Lydia didn't find yours. Not in her usual way anyway. She realized you had an army connection, that's why we went looking for you and realized you were gone. She didn't scream and she didn't lead us to your corpse."

Stiles paused to take a breath.

"She didn't scream?" Harris asked, a deep puzzled frown on his face. "I'm assuming this is Lydia Martin you're referring to, however I am uncertain what she has to do with this."

Stiles froze. "Er, she uh..." He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how to phrase it without giving too much away. "She sort of found a lot of the bodies of the sacrifices. Especially around the school."

"She was drawn to their dead bodies?" Stiles nodded warily. Harris considered this and Stiles wanted to kick himself and his wandering mouth that sometimes babbled without his say-so. Scratch that: _constantly_ babbled without his say-so. Harris' eyes widened. "Screaming... Banshee. Lydia Martin is a banshee?!"

Stiles winced. The look on his former chemistry teacher's face was one of amazement with just possibly a hint of awe. "Fascinating."

"Uh yeah, pretty sure that's not the word Lydia would use for it."

Harris waved away his comment. "In any case, I believe you were working on a better question to ask me?"

"Uhh..." Stiles faltered. He had been? Oh right, his babbling that had resulted in outing Lydia. "It's just that the first five sacrifices were all done in the style of the three-fold death and yours would've been number six, which fits in the set of three pattern. They'd been garroted, bludgeoned and had their throats sliced. Any one of those would've killed them, so how is it that you've somehow survived one let alone three? Or did Julia or Jessica or whatever her name was use something different on you?"

"No, she didn't."

"Then how are you alive?!" Stiles felt like he was going around in circles. It was times like this that he was glad he'd decided to grow his hair out. It gave him something to pull out.

"Your logic is sound except for one detail." Stiles looked up and met Harris' amused, mocking eyes. "Any one of those methods of death would've killed a _human_. Therefore, it stands to reason..."

He trailed off and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Stiles froze, his eyes widened and he was fairly certain his jaw dropped as well.

"You're not human," he finally managed to whisper. He cleared his throat. "What are you?"

"And there you have it: a much better question, don't you think?"

"Sure." There was a pause. "Am I going to get an answer?"

Harris smirked. "Yes, but not here." With that he turned on his heel and began to walk away.

Stiles gaped after him for a few moments before turning to the bird on his shoulder. "You know there really should be a rule about people being easier to get along with once they've joined the supernatural fanclub."

The bird chirped and then spread its wings and flew off after the former chemistry teacher. Stiles groaned. Following someone who wasn't human and definitely hated him into a part of the forest almost no one ever drove by or walked through? Yep, that was definitely the epitome of bad ideas all rolled into one lovely little ball made of barbed wire. Bright neon green barbed wire.

Stiles followed them anyway.

They didn't seem to be following a trail of any sort as they walked through the forest. Neither did they come across a single hiking trail and the Beacon Hills preserve was a famous hiking destination (although given recent events it wouldn't exactly surprise Stiles if it was drawing less hikers now than usual). Something moved to his left, making the underbrush softly rustle. Stiles turned, instantly on alert, and found himself looking into the eyes of a curious deer. He stopped in amazement and held its gaze. A second joined it after a moment and took a step towards him, its nose craning in his direction. Suddenly it froze and then reared back as though startled.

Before Stiles had a change to blink, both deer had bounded off into the forest.

He heard Harris chuckle. "You must smell strongly of wolf," he said.

Stiles froze. "Y-you know about the werewolves?" he asked and then felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. Of course he knew about the werewolves. He'd known about the Darach, who'd been gathering power in order to exact revenge upon a pack of werewolves. He turned to Harris and sure enough, his former chemistry teacher was looking at him with a very clear 'you are an idiot' look on his face. He was fairly certain the sparrow sitting on his shoulder was looking at him with the exact same expression. "Uh, don't suppose we could forget I ever made that comment?"

Harris snorted. "I will purge my memory of it." He set off again through the forest. Stiles jogged to catch up. "And before you ask, yes, I was aware that Scott McCall and your merry band of misfits were newly-turned wolves. It was quite amusing watching them try to hide it."

Stiles gaped after him. Something occurred to him.

"So you knew about the Hales then."

Harris froze in his tracks. Stiles frowned, suddenly angry to be staring at the man's back. He strode forward and grabbed his arm, turning him around forcefully. "Did you know about the Hales?" he asked again, this time with more anger in his voice.

Harris glared down at him. "Yes, I knew who and what the Hales were," he finally answered tersely. Then he yanked his arm out of Stiles' grasp. "I did not, however, know who or what Kate Argent was."

Stiles felt his anger deflate as quickly as it had arisen. Right, of course. Just because Harris could recognize werewolves didn't mean he could recognize hunters. He ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered.

Harris swept past him without a word.

Less than ten minutes later, they stepped out of the dense forest and into a large clearing. Stiles blinked at the sudden light. Not far from him he saw an old fashion iron pump painted red – even faded by time and the elements as it was it still caught his eye as the only splash of colour amid the green and brown. Dominating the clearing was a large shack. It was large enough to potentially earn the title of 'cabin' except that the word 'cabin' seemed to imply a degree of solidity and not looking like something that would fall down during the next storm.

Stiles had half-expected to be led to a cave. Just once he would like to come across a supernatural creature that lived in a cave. It seemed rather disappointing to discover they all lived like mundane ordinary people in houses and apartments and things. Except that cave-dwelling creatures tended to use said caves in order lure and/or drag humans into to eat them... Nevermind. Houses were more comfortable anyway.

He paused jut in front of the shack in order to read the bronze plaque nailed next to the door. It read: "Ours is not the vulgar gold."

He followed Harris inside. Stiles stopped on the threshold and gaped as he looked around. For the most part it looked exactly like what one would expect a somewhat derelict shack to look like: unpainted wooden floor and walls with what looked like a small wood stove in the centre, some shelves along one side filled with mostly books, but also a few oddities like a human skull (Stiles was determinedly _not_ going to ask if it was real), some large crystals and a small silver hand mirror. There was also a larger, plainer mirror above a ceramic basin standing next to a cot with the dullest shade of grey sheets Stiles had ever seen. Next to the cot was an overturned wooden crate with a dark blue cloth napkin thrown over it.

However, there was also a second shelf on the opposite side of the room to the first and that one was filled to bursting with jars upon jars upon small wooden boxes. Most of them looked like they were filled with dried herbs and spices, but there were a few containing things that looked more... liquid. One of the larger jars actually looked like it had eyeballs in it... Stiles looked away quickly and turned his attention to the large table that took up the centre of the room. It looked like a workstation. It actually looked a lot like one of the chemistry lab benches only less precise, less... sciencey. Like it belonged in the Hogwarts Potions classroom – possibly Severus Snape's private lab.

Actually... that was _exactly_ what it looked it.

There was a small cast-iron pot sitting on top of a small gas burner, which was totally a cauldron gone undercover. To its right sat a wooden tray containing an array of vials and beside that two bunsen burners – one of which was on and contained a slowly simmering reddish-orange liquid. To its left was a clay pot containing a collection of utensils from stirring spoons and spatulas to a large thermometer and forceps. There was also a tall narrow glass object that looked a bit like a lava lamp except the colours weren't as bright and instead of the usual blobby liquidy things that went up and down, the inside of this glass container seemed to made of swirling gases.

"Are you, like, a wizard or something?" he blurted out, eyes still following the mingling gases.

He looked up when Harris snorted. "Absolutely not," the man said from the corner of the room by the cot. "You can ignore pointed hats and wands and broomsticks and whatever other nonsense those ridiculous books came up with. Magic doesn't work that way."

"Aw, that's a- wait. Deaton said magic doesn't exist. Are you telling me he's _wrong_? That magic is totally a thing?!"

Harris made a face at Stiles' wording. "That isn't entirely inaccurate," he said and then turned to face away from Stiles as he gripped the bottom of his turtleneck and slid it over his head efficiently.

Stiles rolled his eyes as he walked further into the shack. "Way to go with the non-answer," he said sarcastically even as his eyes took notice of the single rune tattooed onto the other man's lower back.

Then Harris turned around and Stiles had less than a second to be idly surprised by how fit the former chemistry teacher actually was before his eyes slid higher. His thoughts fled his mind with a gasp he couldn't keep in. There were long painful-looking gouges in Harris' neck – one thin precise line and a second deeper would that gaped apart slightly. They looked exactly like the wounds on the corpses Scott's mom had shown him in the morgue. Except... there was a thin layer of red around the edges, but otherwise the layers of internal stuff like nerves and muscles were _missing_. It looked wrong: hideously, fascinatingly wrong. As though someone had used the garrote and knife on a chunk of flesh-coloured cheese or play-doh.

"Wh-what the hell?" Stiles finally managed to croak out, mesmerized by the sight, but unable to decide whether he wanted to move forward to touch or run away to throw up. "What are you made of?!" he asked. He took a step backwards, his breaths coming faster even as his mind registered what a stupid question that was.

Harris crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Clay, wax and magic, actually," he answered.

Stiles froze. Oh. So not such a stupid question after all. "Huh?"

"I'm a golem: an artificial living being formed out of clay and wax and then given life through alchemy. And magic, but alchemists hate admitting to relying on magic and so the official definition doesn't mention any magic."

Stiles blinked. "A golem? That's... different. I was sort of expecting vampire to be honest."

"I wasn't aware you'd missed the amount of sun shining down on me in that parking lot," said Harris dryly.

"Yeah, I _know_ that. But everything says that werewolves are allergic to silver which isn't true either. I figured maybe there was, like, a vampire hunter family out there named Soleil or something."

"Well, you can rest assure there isn't. Vampires do burst into flames under the sun's rays. And only the most powerful ones can survive indirect sunlight."

Stiles' eyes widened. "Wait, so you mean vampires are a thing? Man, no one's ever given me a straight answer on that. That's so cool!"

Harris rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't think so if you actually met one. They're not quite as civilized as popular media likes to think they are."

"Aaand I'll just be excited and hope I never have to find out for myself." Stiles grinned. "Anyway, you were saying. A golem, really? Wait, does that mean you're also older than you look?"

A nod. Then Harris gestured to something behind Stiles. "Have a seat, Mister Stilinski."

Stiles half-turned to look behind him. Then turned the rest of the way and walked over to grab the simple wooden chair sitting next to the doorway. He pulled it over to the wood stove where his former chemistry teacher had unfolded a square-shaped collapsible table. He bit his lip and fidgeted as the man pulled over a second wooden chair and then poured them both drinks from a white and blue ceramic pitcher. Stiles picked up his glass, eyed the vaguely green-ish liquid and then sniffed it.

It smelt a bit like peppermint mixed with some sort of other herbs. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's an herbal drink I brew myself when I'm out here. It's both refreshing and medicinal. And, before you ask, completely non-alcoholic."

Stiles shrugged before taking a tentative sip. The peppermint didn't taste as strong as it smelt, though it was still obviously there. He took a second sip. It tasted very... green. And lemony. Like herbal lemonade. "'S not bad. Uh, thank you."

"Hmm, you're welcome." Harris wasn't paying attention to Stiles anymore – not really. Instead he was absently staring out the window. The shack was silent for a few moments and Stiles took another drink of his lemonade drink in order to keep his mouth occupied.

There was a flutter of wings and the sparrow landed on top of the table. Harris brought his hand down to steady it when the rickety piece of furniture wobbled at the impact. Then he took a deep breath and looked back to Stiles.

"I was brought to life at some time during the end of the sixteenth century. The beginning of my existence is a bit... confusing and I had no clear distinction of the passage of time. The earliest event I can clearly place was Rabbi Loewe's funeral which was in the year 1609. The alchemist who'd created me was a sort of disciple of his and he'd brought me along in order to show me off to his peers. He'd been one of many alchemists employed in the court of Emperor Rudolf II in Prague, but creating artificial life wasn't talked about out loud: it went against the Church. But of course, the whispers had gotten around so everyone knew what I was. I think it was about two years later that I ran away from him. And since I'm not properly alive and thus can't die, I'm still here."

"Wow," was the first thing Stiles could think of to say. His body was thrumming with excitement. "So you're sort of like a medieval clone?"

Harris glared at him. "There is absolutely nothing medieval about the sixteenth century. I suggest a bit more effort in history class, Mister Stilinski."

Stiles waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, that's so cool though!" He took another look at the garrote wound and frowned. "Does that hurt?"

"Not anymore. Yes, I can feel pain, however it fades faster than it would with a human and I have a tincture that helps numb the area until it does."

"Why would anyone want to create an animated clay, er clone person thing and then make it feel pain?"

Harris raised an eyebrow. "Why do scientists do anything they do?"

Stiles thought about that. "To see if they can?" He paused. "And... to see what it does and how it does it. Holy shit, you were a science experiment! Except that it was alchemy, so I guess that makes you an alchemical experiment... Are you an alchemist?" He whirled around to look at the table again. "Is this an alchemist's lab?!"

"Some of that is alchemy, yes. The rest of it is none of your business." Stiles blinked and then looked back over his shoulder. Harris' eyes drilled holes into his. Stiles gulped and turned back around in his chair. "Now, you know what I am and how I survived the triple death ritual-"

"Though not why you didn't try and stop her," Stiles pointed out with a frown. "I mean, if she thought you were dead, because she didn't know you couldn't die then you were in the perfect position to totally catch her off guard and ambush her or something. People died! A-and you could've stopped it! My father-"

"Mister Stilinski!" Stiles froze mid-rant and mid-armflail. "Now _sit down_." Stiles blinked and looked down, surprised to find he was standing. He sat back down and glared at Harris.

Harris looked back coldly. "Are you aware how the sacrifice works?"

"Uh, obviously someone is ritually killed in specific order along Telluric Currents-"

"So you found out about Mister Mahealani's research. Good for you. However, you _obviously_ have no idea what the answer to my question is."

Stiles' eyes narrowed. For a minute there he's almost forgotten what an ass the man sitting opposite him with his shirt off was. "Well, 's not exactly like I'm an expert in sacrifices or anything. I was sort of a bit busy keeping my dad from becoming one to really care about the ins and outs of them."

Harris frowned. "Your father? She took the sheriff?"

Stiles nodded carefully. "And Scott's mom and Allison's dad. Had them under the Nemeton. We managed to save them – not that you care."

"Hmm..." Harris looked thoughtful for a moment and then shook his head. "No, you're right, I don't. Although the thought of your father being forcibly detained does fill me with a certain sense of satisfaction."

Stiles startled himself by growling. Harris ignored the sound and continued.

"However, as for the sacrifice: the point of a ritual sacrifice is not so much to kill someone as to gift their life force to something else. According to magical theory, there is a slight delay between a person dying and their life force exiting their body. The purpose of a sacrificial death is to take advantage of the delay in order to redirect it elsewhere. You mentioned the Nemeton. A powerful object or place will often redirect that energy on its own if it requires it to live or gain strength." He paused to see if Stiles was following. Stiles nodded warily. "When it came to me, the rules were different. Draining a living thing of its life force will kill it, however as we've already established, I can't die. Therefore when the ritual linked my life force to Julia through the Nemeton, the flow never ceased. Feeling your life force being continuously drained is... not pleasant."

Stiles gulped and stayed silent. He wasn't stupid: he knew an understatement when he heard one. He also wasn't going to ask. The man had just admitted to not caring if his father died. He didn't want any reason to feel sympathy towards him right now. "So you were basically down for the count," he said instead.

"Yes. Now whatever you did to defeat Julia has obviously caused the Beacon to stir once again. I hope I don't need to tell you that's bad."

"Uh, no, we sort of got that part." Stiles paused. "What _is_ the Beacon anyway?"

Harris raised an eyebrow. "It's a curse."

Of course it was, thought Stiles with an internal sigh. Because having something to physically destroy would have been too easy.

* * *

Just to hedge off any golem confusion... Harris hasn't exactly given Stiles the entire story here (you may have noticed it seemed very brief) and, yes, there is a huge part of the golem legend that hasn't been touched on. With a character like Harris I just feel like he would keep things on a need-to-know basis unless Stiles asked a direct question. So yeah, more explanations to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

So first of all, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited or added this story to their alerts! It makes me happy to know you're enjoying this story even with its odd premise. Secondly, to those of you wondering where the crossover portion of this story is I'd like to make one thing clear: this is NOT a reincarnation fic. Merlin will be gracing us all with his presence soon though. ;)

Okay, now that that's done: please enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Had the sheriff been awake to see Stiles on Sunday morning, he would've likely frogmarched him over to the station to have him fingerprinted and then over to the McCall residence to have Scott sniff him in order to make sure he was actually his son and not some weird shape-shifting demon pretending to be his son. Stiles sometimes worried that his father was being a bit too enthusiastic about the whole werewolf/supernatural thing. It wasn't a loud, excited enthusiasm and people who didn't know him well probably wouldn't have recognized it for what it was, but it was definitely there in its own weird way.

One of the first things he'd done had been to buy the entire series of _Supernatural._ Which wasn't really the best research technique, but Stiles liked watching _Supernatural_ with his dad, therefore wasn't about to mention it too loudly.

The point: not only was Stiles not sleeping 'till noon-ish as per his usual Sunday routine, but by eight he'd already been by Starbucks and had them fill the largest thermos he could find at home. And a coffee for himself, of course, because it _was_ eight in the morning. He hated to think he was possibly doing something nice for Harris, so had decided to think of it more as a bribe. He'd been up for hours doing research and was now brimming with questions.

Coffee in exchange for answers sounded like a fair enough trade.

Assuming Harris drank coffee. Try as he might, Stiles couldn't remember if he'd ever actually seen him with a coffee mug. He knew Harris drank stuff, because he'd seen him drink that herbal lemon tea thing yesterday – and how exactly did _that_ work? Did he have, like, a clay pipline connecting his throat with some sort of digestive system and then urinary tract? And just how anatomically correct was he? Was he like a Ken doll or did he actually have fully-functioning equpment? Could he have sex? Actually it would explain a lot if he couldn't...

Coffee. Stiles shook his head, cursing his brain for the horrible images it'd just made him think. Coffee was safe. Although now Stiles _really_ wanted to know how Harris could eat or drink anything. Hopefully coffee was one of the things he drank. He was a teacher and teachers all drank coffee, right?

Stiles really hoped this was one stereotype his former chemistry teacher ascribed to.

He parked in the same spot as before, only this time he bypassed the parking lot and headed straight for the forest. Beacon Hills had still felt half-asleep when he'd driven through its streets, but here in the forest it felt like everyone was wide awake. He touched the trunk of a particularly gnarled tree that sort of looked like forest goblin - or a really small ent – and suddenly the air exploded in loud angry chattering. Stiles jumped back and looked up to try and spot the noisy, territorial squirrel.

"Alright, alright, I got it: your tree, not mine," he muttered before continuing on.

Walking through the forest this early in the morning reminded him of his mother. She'd loved being there as it woke up. She had also been the one to teach him to recognize birds and trees. They used to collect mushrooms and then fry them up in an egg omlet when they got home and Stiles would force himself to eat it even though the wild mushrooms got all slimey and felt like slugs when he ate them. He hadn't gone on this sort of walk in years – the last time his mother had been incredibly pale and walked oh so slowly...

Stiles took a deep breath and swallowed around a lump in his throat. He hadn't realized how many memories of his mother were linked to their early morning forest walks. Since Scott had been bitten, Stiles had been in the forest more often than he had in the years after she'd died, but there had always been something to find, something to run away from, or people's lives to save. It never seemed this calm and peaceful.

A chorus of birds burst into song somewhere overhead. Stiles looked up and smiled. The sun was sneaking its way through the dense canopy of trees, making leftover dew drops sparkle and transforming a rather spectacular spiderweb woven between two trees into a glittering work of art. The air smelt of greenery, fresh air and mushrooms. This was a morning his mother would've loved.

The hollowness in his chest felt different now, more familiar. Stiles blinked away the moisture in his eyes and continued on.

The Harris' sparrow flew around his head and chirpped in greeting as soon as he stepped into the clearing. "Hey, good morning to you too, little guy," said Stiles with a grin. At least someone was happy to see him. "You know, you really need a name. I'll bet Harris never bothered to give you one."

"Of course I didn't." Stiles looked to the entrance to the shack where Mr. Harris was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. Meanwhile, the sparrow landed on Stiles' left shoulder and seemed to be inspecting the reflective surface of the stainless steele thermos curiously. "I only made him so that I could send messages to you."

Stiles frowned. "Made him?" His eyes widened and he turned his head to look at the sparrow on his shoulder. "You mean he's a golem too?"

"Yes. I can gather just enough power to occassionally animate a small creature."

"Wow. Okay, that's really cool." The sparrow's gaze reminded him of why he was here. He turned back to his former teacher. "Er, so I was researching golems and alchemy and stuff last night and I, uh, have questions..."

Harris snorted. "Of course you do, Mister Stilinski. I'd be shocked and amazed if you didn't. And to hedge your first question: yes, I am most definitely a golem and not a homonclus. I assume you know the difference between the two."

"Uh, yeah." Stiles made a face. "Alchemists were super weird by the way. Did anyone actually manage to make an artificial human by putting sperm in a glass jar and leaving it to ferment in horse manure?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Uh, good. Also, why the hell would someone _want_ to cut out the fun part of making a baby?"

"To prove that women were surperflous in the entire arrangement except to act as a carrying case for the child and give birth to it."

"Right. That's... messed up, but sort of almost makes sense."

Harris rolled his eyes. "Come in, Mister Stilinski," he said and stepped back into the shack.

Inside, the shack looked the same as it had yesterday evening when Stiles had finally left. Except that the bunson burner was now off and the vials on the table seemed to be arranged in a slightly different order. Even the small collapsable table was still sitting next to the wood stove with the two chairs standing to either side of it. Apparently he'd been expected.

"Er, so I brought coffee," he said, holding the thermos out to Harris when the man turned around. "I'm not entirely sure if you drink coffee, but I sort of figured that you might and, well, it's not exactly like you can go into town to get some and-"

"Yes, I do drink coffee," Harris interrupted him, staring at the thermos in surprised confusion. After a few seconds, he took it. "Thank you."

Stiles smiled. "You're welcome." Then he dug a bag of creamers and sugar packets out of the pocket of his hoodie.

The former chemistry teacher waved it off. "I'm afraid I have very little in the way of food here," he said after he'd inhaled the coffee's aroma.

"Do you eat? I mean obviously you drink. Does that mean you have, like, an artificial digestive system with like fake organs and stuff?"

Harris took a drink of his coffee and raised an eyebrow at him. "Not in the way you're thinking. My body absorbes food and water. Liquids I require on a similar level to any human being, however food not at all. I _can_ eat, however my body takes a very long time to... digest it for lack of a better word. As a result I don't eat unless a social situation requires it of me. As for how it works exactly: I don't know. I haven't exactly cut myself open to find out."

Stiles nodded. "Fair enough." He thought about how to phrase his next question – actually his main question. "Er, so I know the internet isn't always the best source of supernatural information, but every single article I read sort of seemed to agree that golems and homonclus are always sort of, uh... missing something and never realize they're not human and they, uh..."

"Go mad if they either find they can't know love or realize they're not human?"

"Uh, yeah that."

"And you're wondering how it is that I'm sitting here calmly talking about not being human instead of rendering you limb from limb in a mad frenzy?"

"Yes. Not that I'm not incredibly happy that you're not. I'm totally fine with being unrendered."

Harris took another drink of coffee. "I did go mad when I realized I wasn't human. I nearly killed my creator and then stumbled out of his house in a rage. I doubt you know Prague, but the Golden Lane where I'd lived was an alchemist district. In other words, I was surrounded by people just like my creator and I was furious at them. Luckily for all of us, one of them had a visitor staying with him - an old man who'd scowled at me in disapproval when we'd met. I'd thought he was a visiting alchemist, but it turned out he was in fact a powerful sorcerer. He stopped me in my rampage and I think he might've used his magic to somehow stabalize me. I don't remember much. All I remember is burning, all-encompassing anger and then blackness. When I woke up I felt much calmer and was no longer in Prague."

Stiles was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. "A sorcerer? Like, someone who uses real magic? So magic_ is_ a thing!"

"Yes, although it has been a very long time since anyone of any significant power has been born. The world no longer requires magic users and so less with the potential are born." He paused. "It's what makes you unique."

"Aaand I'm not even going to pretend to be surprised you know about the Spark."

"I knew the moment you stepped into my classroom, Mister Stilinski."

Suddenly his phone went off. Stiles jumped and fished it out of his pant pocket. "Dammit!" he whispered, running a hand through his hair. He must've taken longer in the forest than he'd realized. He turned off the alarm and looked at Harris apologetically. "Er, sorry. I've got to go."

"You say that like I'm supposed to think it's a bad thing."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. I've got Sunday dinner to go help get ready for."

Harris raised an eyebrow. "The sheriff actually manages to take time off for Sunday dinner?"

Stiles grinned. "He does when Melissa McCall bullies him and Chris Argent into it and then forces the rest of the pack to attend."

A chuckle. "I've apparently underestimated that woman."

"A lot of people do that." Stiles was already at the doorway when something occured to him. He turned around thoughtfully. "I just realized... you were already living in Beacon Hills when the Hales were alive. Did no one out of an entire pack of werewolves notice you weren't human?"

Harris shrugged. "I think Talia Hale might've known I was something, though I doubt she'd guessed exactly what. And she and some of the elders certainly knew about this cottage here. However it's outside their territory and I wasn't a threat, so they left me alone."

"Cool. So, uh, this dinner with the pack-"

"Yes, I am aware you'll no doubt tell them I'm alive." He smirked. "If Peter Hale graces you with his presence, please do inform him that should he feel the need to complete his 'revenge' then this time will be different. I've no longer a reason to hide."

Stiles frowned. Then he left.

* * *

Stiles rang the doorbell and then tried the door. It was unlocked, so he let himself in. Scott had probably already heard his jeep pull up anyway.

"Stiles!" Yup, there he was.

"Hey Scott," Stiles greeted back.

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinked and then looked to where his dad was standing in the doorway to the McCall kitchen, dish cloth in hand. He looked worried. Isaac peeked into the hallway from the other side of the doorway.

"Oh, hey dad." It suddenly occured to him that he had no explanation for where he'd been this morning. Then Scott was grabbing him by the shoulders and sniffing him. Like a freaking dog. "Woah, hold on there Lassie!"

Stiles pushed Scott away from him, feeling a bit creeped out by the behaivour. Scott stepped away from Stiles with a frown. "You smell strange, Stiles. Where were you?"

"I- I was in the forest. It was a nice morning for it, ya know?"

Scott's frown deepened, as though trying to spot the lie.

"You went for an early morning walk in the forest?" he heard his dad ask. Stiles looked over to the surprised – and slightly suspicious - expression on his father's face. There may also have been some moisture in his eyes, but Stiles dutifully ignored that.

Stiles sighed. "Okay, fine, so there's a bit more to it than that, but can we, like, wait 'till later to get to it? It's not anything dangerous, not really. Well, mostly not dangerous."

He looked from his father to Scott.

"Hey, I thought I was getting an extra pair of hands, not losing the three pairs that were already here!"

Scott winced. "Sorry, mom!" he called back. He looked to Stiles. "Fine, tell us at dinner."

Stiles grinned. "Will do, buddy," he said and then followed his friend towards the kitchen. As he passed by, his dad placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Stiles looked up at the man and they exchanged small, sad smiles.

Then they were all swept away in a flurry of preparations under the strict orders and supervision of Mrs. McCall. An hour later, Allison and her father arrived, desert in hand. It was a cake that looked like it had rightly earned the title Death by Chocolate – with the distinct possibility of Afterlife and Ressurection as well.

"Allison, marry me," said Stiles after several moments of salivating.

Allison giggled. "Sorry, Stiles, but I didn't make it." Her eyes shifted pointedly towards her father.

Chris Argent glared at him. "Don't even think about it, Stiles."

Stiles made a face. "What? No, ew, that's just wrong on so many levels."

The others laughed. "Better luck next time, son," his father said with a grin.

Lydia, Ethan and Aiden arrived ten mintues after the Argents. The twins looked more timid and unsure than Stiles had ever seen them. It quickly became clear that Aiden was only here because Lydia had bullied him into it and Ethan was only here because of his brother. Scott, Stiles and Issac exchanged grins as Melissa immediately took charge and ushered them into seats at the already-set dining room table.

They were all already seated at the table when the doorbell rang again. Melissa stood, levelled a pointed look at Scott, Isaac and Chris Argent before going to open the door. It revealled an impecibly-dressed Peter Hale, who smiled with delight when he saw her and handed her a stunning bouquet of flowers.

"Hello, Melissa," he said. "I tried to find something that would match your beauty, but alas this was the best I could do."

Melissa raised an amused eyebrow and accepted the flowers. "Thank you, Peter," she said graciously.

Even her dull human ears picked up the sound of two guns being cocked and some low growling. Peter's eyes danced with amusement. She rolled her eyes.

"Thanks boys, but I think I've got it covered," she called loudly over her shoulder. Then she frowned. "And no firearms at the table!"

Peter chuckled. "I see you have your priorities straight."

"Hmmm. I also have strategicly-placed packets of wolfsbane hidden throughout the house." She smiled up at Peter. "Now why don't I just go find a vase for these while you have a seat at the table."

Peter sauntered into the dining room as though he were a frequent guest. And, to his credit, only paused slightly when he realized his seat was between the sheriff and one of the alpha twins. He sat down just in time to overhear Isaac whisper to Scott.

"Dude, your mom has wolfsbane in the house?" His eyes scanned the room nervously.

Scott made a face. "Yeah, man, she had Stiles help her with it. And both of them refuse to tell me where it is!"

"That's 'cause they're for her protection not yours," Stiles interjected in a calm, reasonable voice that sounded just a little bit annoyed at having to repeat himself _again_.

Then Melissa returned and they began to eat. As food disappeared off the table, they kept the conversation light: school, lacross, the weather and funny work anecdotes having been deemed as the only appropriate topics of mealtime conversation. When they were finished and two pots of coffee were brewing in the kitchen (Stiles' dad had brought their coffeemaker over), Lydia clearned her throat.

"So, I think we should tell Danny," she announced.

"Agreed," said Ethan imediately from beside Peter.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Of course you do," he said. "Now you realize when she said 'we', she actually means 'you'. As in, you specifically. You know, being the glowy-eyed transforming boyfriend and all."

"Yeah, I get that Stilinski," Ethan spat back, although he didn't look quite as confident as he had moments before.

"I don't know guys, should we really be telling so many people about-" Scott started.

"If Danny and Ethan are going to be long-term then he has a right to know," Allison interrupted him. "I mean, he's pretty much surrounded by werewolves most of the time. Eventually it's going to become dangerous."

"I hate to say it," said Stiles' dad. "But she's right. If he doesn't know what's out there, he doesn't know how to defend himself from it and from what you kids have told me, danger sort of follows you around. He's already a target just by being with Ethan."

Chris Argent nodded. "It won't take a creature with too much inteligence to figure out that the easiest way to get to Ethan and by extension Aiden and the rest of you is to get Mister Mahaelani and use him as bait."

"Or to send a message," Lydia added quietly.

Stiles winced. Then he sighed and looked at Scott, ignoring the confused look on his friend's face. "Yeah, yeah, sorry buddy, but I think you're outvoted here. Plus Danny's smart; he's probably already figured out something's going on. I mean, if Jackson could figure out the werewolf thing on his own, then Danny definitely can." He brightened. "Oooh, also mad hacking skills! We'd be able to use Superhacker Danny to help us with stuff."

Someone cleared their throat. Stiles cringed and his eyes slid to his left to meet his father's unamused expression. "Er, not that we would, 'cause that's totally illegal and against the law and really really bad. And we would never break the law or, uh, anything... At least we haven't killed anyone yet?"

The sheriff sighed and covered his face with a hand. From his other side Peter raised a hand and waved at Stiles.

"Yeah, you don't count," Stiles snapped at him. "Besides, 's not murder if the victim's still walking around afterwards."

Peter snorted. "I'm so glad I could do my part to assauge your guilty conscience."

"Whatever, man."

"Stiles, leave it," said Scott. "Ethan, go ahead and tell Danny. If you have any problems or if he wants to know more tell him to come to us."

"More specifically, send him to Lydia, Allison or Stiles," Melissa added. She smiled at Ethan and Scott's confused looks even as the three in question nodded. "Trust me, as a human he'll probably find it easier to talk to someone who's also human. And he's known Lydia and Stiles longer so one of them would probably be your best option."

"Uh, okay," said Ethan. He looked nervous, but managed a small smile for Scott's mother. "Thank you Mrs. McCall."

"You're welcome, honey."

"Right, so, er..." Scott floundered, as though suddenly aware that all eyes were on him, that everyone was paying attention to his words.

Stiles hid a smile and then met Melissa McCall's fondly amused eyes over the table, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. That they were both relieved that underneath the confident 'I'm the Alpha now' werewolf was still Stiles' best buddy, Scott. Who cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter.

"Peter, what do you know about the Beacon?" he asked.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "The Beacon?" he asked. "Hmm, not much. I think there was a book or two about it in the family library once upon a time. Unfortunately, unless you have a time machine..."

"_Peter_."

Peter rolled his eyes at the threatening growl in Scott's voice. "No, Scott, I'm sorry to say that while my magical laptop of knowledge includes plenty of information concerning the many creatures that may come along and try to either eat us or invade our territory, there is unfortunately nothing in it about the Beacon of Beacon Hills."

The way Scott deflated told Stiles that Peter wasn't lying. Or was at least very good at lying to other werewolves. Damn. The researcher in Stiles hated having only one dubiously-reliable source of information, but it was still better than nothing.

"It's a curse," he said finally. That got everyone's attention.

"A curse?" Peter asked, intrigued.

Stiles swallowed. "Yeah. Apparently somewhere around the year 1740-ish when the first Europeans arrived and decided to settle this area there was a large native settlement just on the other side of that ridge to the south. The Europeans were all like 'yeah, whatever' about it and the natives were happy enough to share and so everything was great until a couple of the younger men came across one of the native girls collecting plants. They, uh, attacked her and raped her and then just left her there in the middle of the forest. Which was horrible and all, but what they hadn't realized was that her dad was the village's shaman – a powerful one too.

When his daughter didn't come home in two days, her father got worried. He set out to find her, but by the time he did it was too late and she'd already died from her wounds. The shaman was devastated; she was the only family he had left. Then he got angry. He took her body and carried it all the way to the European settlement where he demanded justice. He claimed the spirits of the forest had told him who had killed her, but the settlers just laughed at him. They called him crazy and told him to leave. He refused and instead attacked one of the men who'd raped and killed his daughter."

Stiles paused and took a deep breath. The dining room was silent, only noise audible was the gentle rumblings of the coffeemakers in the kitchen.

"They killed the shaman, but with his last breath he cursed the settlement with misfortune, saying they would never know peace or safety for as long as they lived there. When his spirit finally left his body it didn't just disappear, it lingered and grew stronger until the hills sang with its anger and that song became a beacon to all the evil, malicious creatures and spirits that lived in the forest and beneath the earth. For over ten years, misfortune plagued the settlement and many people died. Some disappeared into the forest and never returned, some caught strange illnesses and some were torn apart by wild animals no one could ever find.

And then one day a new family of settlers arrived in what was now being called Beacon Hills. They took one look at the beautiful fertile land and decided they wanted to stay. But they needed to make it safe for their children, so they decided to help the residents fight the curse. They had with them an old woman who knew about curses and with her help they found the spot in the forest where the old shaman and his daughter had been burried. The settlers were shocked to find that a huge tree had grown over the grave in the meantime. The new family spent nearly a week in the forest, during which time the residents of Beacon Hills knew the malicious spirits were attacking them because at night they could hear angry howls coming from the forest. When the family finally emerged, they were dragging behind them the trunk of the giant tree and carried with them the body of the old woman.

They burned the tree trunk and burried the old woman in their cemetary. When an entire month passed and nothing happened, the residents realized the curse had been lifted. The people of Beacon Hills were incredibly grateful and so no one objected when the new family built themselves a big house in the middle of the forest and claimed the area as theirs."

Stiles looked around at the stunned faces around the table. "As you've probably already guessed, that family's name was Hale."

For a few moments no one spoke.

"Well, now I really wish those books hadn't been lost to the fire," Peter finally broke the silence.

"That tree they cut down... was that the Nemeton?" Allison asked.

"It sounds like it," Scott agreed.

"I-I think it might be," said Stiles, feeling a bit weirded out. He'd only been repeating the story Mr. Harris had told him, but somehow it had felt like _more_. As though the words hadn't really been his and he'd just been the mouthpiece for the story.

"I've never heard this story before," said Stiles' dad. "Where exactly did you hear it, son?"

"Yes, I'd like to know that too," Lydia added, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You'd think that a story like that would be common knowledge."

Now Stiles just shrugged. "I seriously don't know why it's not. I actually heard it from someone else. I tried googling it, but I could only find vague sort of references to stories that could've been it, but could've also been, like, a dozen other stories."

"Who did you hear it from?" Scott asked.

Stiles looked at his friend and swallowed. "Ah, and now we finally get to where I was this morning and yesterday after lacross practice..."

Scott's eyebrows rose and Stiles resisted the urge to point out how much that reminded him of Derek. Instead he just grinned.

"So, uh, guess who it turns out isn't actually dead after all?" he asked.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much to all of you who bothered to comment on the last chapter and to those of you who didn't! I'm glad you're enjoying this brainchild of mine and hope you'll all continue to enjoy it. :)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The forest was never quiet. Even in the dead of night it was alive with activity, a busy nightlife all its own. It was less vibrant, more subdued than its daylife - as though the lack of sunlight had somehow forced it into a reverent hush – but it was undeniably present. The songbirds were asleep and the owls and bats that had taken their place flew about on silent wing, only occasionally letting out a deep, solemn hoot or high-pitched, barely-detectable squeak. Their prey scuttled and scurried about the underbrush while the wind rustled leaves and crickets chirped their own lulling, rhythmic chorus.

Yes, there was always life and sound in the forest. Which was why Adrian Harris noticed when it went silent.

He looked up from the potion he was stirring and out the window with a frown. He glanced down at his watch. It was 4:30 am: still a ways 'till sunrise. Carefully, he placed the wooden spoon he'd been using down onto his workstation and turned off the flame on the bunsen burner. Then he walked over to the window and peered out. He hadn't been lying to the Stilinski boy; he could handle a werewolf if it came to it. However, given the choice, he would really rather not have to.

Then he heard it: the quiet, steady sound of flapping wings. Wings that sounded much too big to belong to a mere bird.

Moments later, a large shadow flew over the window and a dark shape landed in the clearing. No sooner had its feet touched the ground, a smaller, human shape slid off its back.

"Well, it's about time," Harris muttered to himself before going out to meet the new arrivals.

* * *

Monday flew by for Stiles in a flurry of classes, lacrosse practice and frantic studying for Tuesday's forgotten history test. Studying that somehow slipped from reading through class notes on the First World War to browsing internet articles on crop circles... Stiles had no idea quite how that had happened, but when he looked at the time and realized it was 3 am, he gave up and hoped he'd somehow managed to do enough actual, relevant studying to pass the test.

Tuesday began with early morning lacrosse practice (because Finstock was nothing if not a believer in back-to-back torture) and the slight surprise announcement that Ethan wouldn't be joining practice because he was sick. Which made absolutely zero sense given that Ethan was an alpha werewolf and therefore _couldn't get sick_. Unless there was a special sort of flu just for werewolves. God, Stiles really, really hoped there wasn't such a thing as werewolf flu. With his luck it would be transferable to humans with close enough contact and it'd be three times as bad a regular flu...

Stiles was going to happily assume there was no such thing as werewolf flu unless proven otherwise.

He frowned and looked to Scott – who was for some reason on the other side of the field with his head down talking to Issac. Stiles glared at his best friend, but that had absolutely no effect whatsoever. Finally he gave up with an annoyed huff and looked around for Aiden. The alpha werewolf was standing at the edge of the crowd with his arms crossed looking bored. He felt Stiles' eyes on him and turned his head slightly to meet his curious gaze. Aiden's eyes flashed red and he sneered at Stiles. Stiles rolled his eyes. The twins had never attempted to hide their contempt for him (and what was up with that anyway: both Lydia and Danny were human too... er, Danny was human and they never acted like that towards him) and Stiles wasn't going to start getting bothered by it now. Instead he looked around to find Danny. Which was when the coach finally called out the first set of drills.

It wasn't until lunchtime that Ethan's absence was explained.

Danny intercepted Stiles on his way to the cafeteria. "Stiles, I need your help with chemistry homework," he said simply.

Stiles blinked at him. "You want _my_ help?" he said incredulously. "What about Lydia? She's-"

"Because I chose you. Come on, let's go outside." Danny smiled before turning to walk towards the exit.

Stiles automatically followed, still confused. Danny was smart – better than Stiles at chemistry in fact (Stiles noticed these things) – so why would he come to him for help. It definitely wasn't an excuse to spend time with him, 'cause, boyfriend aside, some days he wasn't even entirely sure Danny _liked_ him. Which is not to say he thought Danny hated him, or even actively disliked him, because he definitely found him occasionally funny...

Danny sat down at one of the picnic tables, folded his arms over each other on top of the wooden table and eyed Stiles with a serious expression as he sat down. Stiles plonked his bag down next to him and unzipped the top.

"So... werewolves," said Danny.

Stiles looked up from where he'd been routing for his chemistry textbook. "Not chemistry?" he asked.

The corner of Danny's mouth twitched. "No, werewolves."

Suddenly Stiles' world made sense again. "Oh. Ooooh, so Ethan told you then. Wow that was fast. Is that why he's not in school today?"

Danny frowned at Stiles. "I told him to give me some space while I thought about it, so I guess." He shrugged. "Didn't actually tell him not to come to school though."

"Eh, he probably figured he'd go crazy smelling you everywhere and not knowing. Trust me, no one wants him to wolf out 'cause of stress. Issac particularly still doesn't trust him and Scott's sort of on the fence... yeah there's so much potential for bad it's not funny."

"That's Issac Lahey and Scott McCall, right?" Stiles nodded. "Thought so. I was a bit overwhelmed last night to ask Ethan about that, but it makes sense. Zero to hero only happens overnight in the movies. Lahey wasn't a bad player, but McCall was shite until he got this sudden boost of something. Jackson was convinced he was shooting."

Stiles groaned and ran a hand through this hair. "Uh, can we not talk about Jackson just yet? That's, like, a totally different traumatizing conversation."

Danny froze and stared at Stiles for a few moments. "You mean that weirdness that was going on with him last year was also because of werewolves?"

"Uh, sorta. His douchiness was all his own, but there may have been some werewolfy involvement, except not really 'cause, uh... yeah, can we seriously leave that for later?"

Danny shrugged. "Sure, okay. Just make sure it's before Sunday so I can see his face when I ask him about it over Skype."

Stiles grinned. "You got it. I live to make Jackson's life difficult."

"I feel like normally I would defend him, but I think that requires a generosity I'm not really feeling right now. So Stiles, why don't you tell me how you knew my boyfriend was a werewolf before I did. I mean, I'm guessing it was because of Scott...?"

"Well yeah, plus it was sort of hard to miss when they were part of a pack trying to kill all of us and turn either Derek or Scott to the dark side with them."

Danny frowned and Stiles paused when he noticed the anger flash across his eyes. "He didn't tell me that."

Stiles winced. "Oops, sorry. I thought he would have since that's why he hooked up with you in the first in order to get close to- oh shit." Stiles cut himself off when he realized what he was saying. This time Danny didn't bother suppressing the anger in his eyes. And anger in those usually mild-mannered, friendly eyes was... mildly terrifying. "Er, if it makes you feel any better you're the reason he turned away from the dark side. Got himself nearly killed in the process too."

"Slightly."

Some of the tension drained out of Danny's shoulders, but Stiles had no doubt Ethan was in for an earful – assuming Danny decided to ever speak to him again. Which Stiles was totally okay with. Ethan may have been the nicest member of the Alpha Pack, but that wasn't actually saying much and he'd caused enough trouble for Stiles and the rest of them. Plus, in a round-about way, he was also responsible for the Darach's anger, which had caused even more problems for Stiles and his friends, including his father... Yeah, Stiles had no problem letting Danny verbally take Ethan apart. Hell, he was probably the only one who _could_.

Finally, Danny took a deep breath and sighed. "Okay, so I'm kinda glad I took his suggestion to talk to a human about this," he finally said with a rueful smile. "I'm not sure I could do this without resenting the person in front of me if they were a super-powered werewolf."

"Scott's mom suggested that."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Scott's mom? Huh, I guess that makes sense. I'm pretty sure my mom would notice something odd if I suddenly got a lot stronger and developed an urge to chase cars."

Stiles sniggered. "Dude, werewolves hate dog jokes."

"Figured. So who else knows exactly? 'Cause I'm sort of feeling like the last man out here."

"Uh, the werewolves obviously. Plus Scott's mom, Allison and then my dad found out when he'd been kidnapped and held in a root cellar with Mrs. McCall and Allison's dad – who already knew from before because he's a werewolf hunter-"

"Woah, hang on. Scott the werewolf dated Allison the werewolf hunter's daughter?!"

"Yeah, I know: could they _be_ more Romeo and Juliette?"

"They could be dead. Wait. Wasn't Allison's aunt found guilty of setting the Hale House fire?"

"She _was_ guilty of setting the Hale House fire. Among other things."

"And she was a werewolf hunter too, wasn't she? That means... wow. There was an entire family of werewolves living right here in Beacon Hills since forever and no one knew?! Explains why their house was in the middle of the preserve."

"Yeah."

Danny eyed him for a moment and then grinned. "I knew I was making the right choice when I came to you for the human-to-human werewolf talk."

Stiles blinked, confused at the sudden change in topic. "Yeah, about that. I'm still a bit confused as to why you chose me when you know Lydia way better. I mean, sure I've known about the whole werewolf thing for longer – hell I've pretty much known about the whole werewolf thing longer than _Scott _seeing as how I was the one who figured out he was one – but Lydia knows almost everything I do at this point."

"Lydia's really good at keeping information to herself." Danny smirked. "You, on the other hand, have a hard time _not_ sharing information."

Stiles gaped at him. "You-you mean you came to talk to me because I babble?!"

"Yup." He watched Stiles for a few moments, amusement dancing in his eyes. Then he grew serious again. He looked at his watch. "So we've got half an hour left of lunchbreak. Why don't you start from the beginning and then we can continue after school."

Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah okay, sure. We can go to mine. I just hope you realize Ethan's not exactly my favourite person, reformed or not."

"Good, then you won't be regaling me with all the reasons I should forgive my boyfriend for lying to me about his species."

"Uh, pretty sure that's not something that comes up casually in conversation."

"Yeah I know, but I think I've already mentioned how not generous I'm feeling right now."

"Oh, right," Stiles said and then did exactly as Danny had asked.

When the bell rang they went to class. After classes were over for the day, Lydia surprised both of them by strutting over to Stiles and handing him the stack of books she was holding.

"So, you're meeting after school to discuss the town's canine situation?" she asked primly. "Good. I'll join you. It'll be faster with two of us, plus then Stiles here doesn't have to feel guilty about talking about me behind my back." She looked at Stiles. "Then tomorrow we can go see Mr. Harris."

She swung around and headed out towards the parking lot. Stiles and Danny stared after her.

"Uh, does she mean our dead chemistry teacher, Harris?" Danny whispered to Stiles.

"Yeah, he's not, er, it's sort of that uh... he's... it's complicated."

"I'm gathering that's sort of been the catch-phrase around here lately."

"Pretty much."

By the time the sheriff came home from work Danny had heard the Beacon Hills ragtag wolf pack's most embarrassing stories, had a basic overview of what he'd missed out on during the past year and a half and knew exactly what he was going to accuse Jackson of during their Sunday afternoon Skype conversation.

* * *

"So, what exactly did you tell Ethan?" Stiles blurted out as he Danny and Lydia all piled out of his jeep.

He'd been sitting on the question all day, feeling it fester and ferment in his brain ever since he'd first seen the werewolf walk into school beside his brother, his steps lacking their usual arrogant strut. Stiles felt very proud of himself for having managed to hold his tongue for this long.

Danny shook his head with an amused smile. "That I'm not breaking up with him, but he's in the doghouse for the forseeable future," he said.

"Good," said Lydia with a nod of approval. "Make him earn your forgiveness."

Danny looked at her askance and his lips turned up into a sly smile. "That was the plan."

"Uh, yeah, that's good," said Stiles. "'Cause that look he had on his face all day made him look so completely pathetic and puppy-like that I sort of felt this physical urge to hug him in order to make it go away. And I happen to know what the guy looks like when he's trying to kill me!"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Stiles, stop being ridiculous. Now, were you going to lead the way or should we guess which tree Harris is hiding behind?"

"He has a shack, er, cabin, sort of... oh who am I kidding: it's a shack. Totally a shack." Stiles set out towards the forest, knowing the other two were following him. It was an odd feeling, having Lydia and Danny both following him. It made him feel like he was important.

They didn't talk much along the way, although Lydia did have Stiles repeat the story of the Curse of Beacon Hills for Danny. He'd also never heard it.

"Wait, hang on!" Danny suddenly exclaimed. He glared at Stiles. "I remember waking up in the hospital. You were there digging through my bag and then you tried to convince me you were a dream!"

Stiles winced. "Er, yeah, sorry about that. I uh, needed your essay on Telluric Currents. See, the reason Harris didn't want you doing that project was because you were too close to us and the Darach was using the Telluric Currents to position the sacrifices... something about how they draw power to the Nemeton and then to her. Your research was a big help to us and totally saved Scott's boss' life."

Danny nodded thoughtfully. "So the currents can be used to conduct magical energy..."

"It's not actually magic exactly-" Stiles began, but Danny waved him off. They fell silent again.

The moment Stiles stepped into the clearing, he could tell that something was different. He paused, frowning at the ground beneath his feet as he tried to analyze the feeling.

"Stiles?" he heard Lydia ask, a note of disgust in her voice. "That is _definitely_ a shack."

"Actually, I'm sort of impressed it's still standing," Danny added. "Not the kind of place I would've ever pictured Harris living in though."

Stiles shrugged. The feeling confused him. He knew something had changed in the clearing since he'd last been here, but he didn't know how or what. Or how knew in the first place for that matter. He looked up and surveyed the area. Everything looked the same as it had the last time... except for the dark lump laying in the shadows against the left wall of the shack. Firewood covered with a blanket perhaps? Stiles took a step towards it, wondering if he would maybe be able to sense that much mountain ash wood in one place.

Which was about when the lump moved. And opened one bright red eye.

Stiles froze. The lump uncurled itself and stood up onto four clawed legs. Then it took a few steps forward and unfurled its long, bat-like wings. Stiles gaped. The creature was dark grey and smaller than the shack, but not by much. And it was reptilian with two slightly twisted horns on its head and long narrow spikes running down its back that tapered off into a long, narrow tail.

Oh who was he kidding? It was a goddamn dragon is what it was.

It eyed them for a moment. Then it opened its mouth and let out a screech that might've almost been a roar had it been twice the size. Stiles was perfectly okay with it not being twice the size: the screech was quite terrifying enough. He jumped at the noise.

"I'm suddenly thinking that maybe we should've brought one of the werewolves along," Danny said softly, his voice sounding slightly faint.

"Stiles, you didn't mention Harris having any pets of unusual size!" Lydia hissed at him.

"That wasn't here before!" Stiles whispered back furiously, his heart beating a rather panicked rhythm now that he'd come out of his initial shock at seeing the beast. Just then he heard a familiar chirping and felt a familiar weight land on his shoulder. He turned to the sparrow. "Hey there, buddy, you got a friend visiting? At least I hope it's a friend and not an enemy, 'cause I hate to break it to you but if you think I'm fighting _that_ for you, you're on the wrong team of adventurers. Dragon slaying is definitely _not_ included in the list of skills on my resume."

"Then it's a good thing it's not a dragon, isn't it?"

Stiles' head shot back to the shack. The voice had spoken with a British accent and the only person Stiles knew who had a British accent was Ducalean. Thankfully, the man standing in the doorway definitely wasn't Ducalean – not even close. For a start, he looked about half a century or so older with long white hair and a beard that came close to brushing his knees. He was also by far the strangest-looking old man Stiles had ever seen and would've probably looked completely natural in a set of grey robes ready to lead an expedition through Middle Earth. Only he wasn't wearing robes. Instead he was wearing jeans and leather chaps and a bright blue, long-sleeved shirt underneath a black t-shirt with a picture of the Mona Lisa on it. So, a bit like Gandalf if he'd had a late-life crisis and bought himself a Harley.

The old man scowled at them and shuffled forward, his steps stiff and his back slightly hunched. The beast turned its head towards him and let out a chirping sound. The old man placed a gentle hand on its head and it nuzzled back. "Myfanwy here is a wyvvern. There is a big difference between a dragon and a wyvvern."

Stiles blinked. "And not because dragons aren't real?" he asked before he'd even thought about it.

The old man snorted. "Of course dragons are real. Why wouldn't they be?"

"Because it's a mythical creature?" Danny offered. "And mythical creatures don't exist?"

"Humph, I don't suppose you've told those so-called mythical creatures that! You modern people and your logic and science think you have it _all_ figured out. Ridiculous."

He left the wyvvern's side and shuffled closer to them, eyeing them critically. His eyes landed on Lydia and widened. "Fascinating," he whispered and then, with a swiftness that belied his age as well as all his previous shuffling, he strode up to her and peered closely into her eyes.

Lydia yelped and took a hurried step back. Stiles tensed, but didn't move any closer. There was something about the man... he didn't feel like a threat.

"You're quite far from your roots aren't you, young lady?"

Lydia swallowed and then quickly composed herself. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The old man chuckled. "Yes you do. It's the interesting thing about fay blood, you know: its powers often can go generations without manifesting themselves. Could've been as much as two hundred years ago that one of your ancestors lay with a banshee. Hm, I imagine something happened to you that forced it to awaken."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the man. "She was bitten by a werewolf," he said before wincing at the glare Lydia shot him.

The old man glanced to Stiles and raised a white bushy eyebrow. "Ah yes, that would do it. The fay are nothing if not selfish. And their blood is powerful even in this realm; it would have never allowed something as common as werewolf blood to take possession of you."

"And I appreciate that, but I'm not sure finding dead bodies is exactly fair trade," said Lydia dryly.

The old man frowned. Then he reached forward and took her left hand, lifting it up so he could squint at her palm. Lydia stiffened, but allowed the gesture. After a few moments she gasped, her eyes widening. She stared at the old man in wonder. Eventually he let go of her hand and stepped back.

"It seems your powers have not fully matured yet," he said. "They are as yet unstable. Hmm..."

He turned away from her abruptly and suddenly he was inches away from Stiles' face and peering into his eyes. Stiles cried out and flailed backwards a step. The old man followed.

"And you, young man, must be this Stiles Adrian has been telling me about."

Stiles gulped. "Uh, yes?" he said. "So, you uh, know Mr. Harris?"

The old man snorted and stepped away. "Of course I know him. I'm here, aren't I? This clearing is not a place people simply wander into."

"Or fly into?" Danny asked.

The old man's eyes flickered in his direction and he scowled, though Stiles was close enough to see the sparkle of amusement in the deep blue eyes. "Indeed."

Having the old man's attention diverted from her for a minute was apparently all Lydia had needed to rally back to her usual self. She now stepped forward, eyes sharp and narrow.

"We're here to see Mr. Harris," she said coolly. "Where is he? And _who_ exactly are you?"

The old man waved her off. "He's inside resting. Healing his body is a rather unpleasant procedure, so I spelled him unconscious."

Stiles blinked. "Spelled? As in used a magic spell? You-you're, like, a wizard or something?"

"Or something."

The realization hit Stiles a bit like a car part to the head (he would know). He'd thought the clearing had felt different when he'd first entered... It wasn't the clearing. It was the man in front of him. Now that he was paying attention, Stiles could feel the charge in the air – somehow both heavier, yet clearer all at once. The darkness around his heart felt soothed, lighter than usual in the man's presence. How had he not noticed sooner?

"You-" Stiles whispered, fascinated by the feeling and awed.

The old man was looking back at him with undisguised curiosity.

"Stiles?" Stiles tore his eyes away from the old man to look at Lydia. There was a slight nervousness in her eyes. "You can feel that too?"

Stiles nodded. Danny frowned. "Feel what?"

"Magic."

The voice sounded hoarse, but familiar. They all looked to the shack and, sure enough, Adrian Harris stood leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. His skin looked slightly paler than usual and his neck had a grey-ish discolouration, but the horrific, unnatural-looking gouges were gone.

"Oh Adrian, you're awake!" the old man exclaimed before shuffling off towards him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine: nothing something to drink won't fix." Harris waved him off in irritation and then frowned at him. "Why are you an old man?"

The old man shrugged. "No one takes me seriously when I'm not."

Harris snorted. "That's because you look ridiculous."

"Humph, see if I ever help you again."

Stiles, Lydia and Danny exchanged glances. Because, really?! Generally, a person looked like an old man because they _were old_. They looked back in time to watch their former chemistry teacher roll his eyes. The old man crossed her arms over his chest and muttered something under his breath.

Then his eyes began to glow gold – not the bright supernatural yellow of werewolf eyes, but the clear, brilliant shine of 24 carot gold. His beard darkened and it shrank, wrinkles smoothed out of his skin as age spots disappeared...

Stiles gaped at the thin young man with short dark hair and slightly protruding ears that was suddenly standing before them. When the gold had faded away from his eyes, he waved a hand at the three teenagers and grinned widely.

"Hello, sorry for the late introduction," he called cheerily. "I'm Merlin."

* * *

*sigh* I feel like I haven't quite utilized the Dragoon persona to its full extent... he may show up again later on, because I enjoy writing Dragoon!Merlin (to some of you that fact probably comes as absolutely no surprise). Anyway, to those of you waiting patiently: there's Merlin for you! =D


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks again for all your reviews and favs guys! I suddenly realized I have less than two months to finish this story if I want it done before season 3b starts, so I'm going to try and pick up the pace from here on.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"...and then he held his hand out and his eyes glowed again and he, like, said a magic spell of some sort that I didn't understand and I'm pretty sure wasn't in Latin and then this huge fireball suddenly swirled into existence just like that! It was totally the coolest thing ever! Deaton's a total crank with his 'there's no such thing as magic'. Magic is a thing. A cool thing."

Lydia and Allison stopped at the edge of the school's parking lot and exchanged looks.

"Magic?" Allison mouthed to Lydia before turning back to look at Stiles in amusement as he regaled Scott with whatever tale it was he was regaling him with: arms flailing and flapping and neck bopping along with his words. Scott, for his part, looked torn between listening to his friend's words and being mesmerized by the constant, erratic movement of his limbs.

Allison giggled.

"But get this: then he made the fire sort of stretch out and he used it to draw pictures in thin air with some dust and dirt he picked up from the ground with wind! Camelot, Scott! I saw Camelot! Well, a graphic representation of it – 3-D model though, which was super cool. And then he told us stories about the real Knights of the Round Table. Did you know that King Arthur was actually a total douche?"

"Prat," Lydia corrected. Stiles startled and spun around to blink at them. Allison turned to her friend with a frown. Lydia simply sniffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Merlin used the word 'prat'."

Stiles shrugged. "Prat's just britspeak for douche."

Scott's eyes had brightened when he'd seen her. "Hey Allison," he called with a sunny smile. "Hey Lydia!"

"Hi Scott," Allison said with a warm smile of her own. He still looked at her as though she was one of the most wonderful things in the world and, despite her confusion over her own feelings, that look never failed to infuse her with a familiar fuzziness.

She shrugged off the feeling and looked between Stiles and Lydia; she felt like she was missing something. "I know you guys left with Danny yesterday," she said carefully. "Did you go watch a movie or something?"

Lydia turned to her with a raised eyebrow. "No, of course not. We went to visit Mr. Harris."

"And you didn't ask if I wanted to come?!"

Lydia shrugged. "You said you had some sort of thing with your dad."

"A training session, yeah, but I would've totally postponed it for _that_."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Not without having to explain to him why you were postponing it and then he would've either stopped us or insisted on coming along."

Yes okay, she had a point there, Allison realized. Her father would never let her cancel a training session without a very good, very detailed reason. That didn't make the small tendrils of hurt that had weaved their way around her heart disappear.

Allison took a deep breath: it was the darkness, she knew it was. Ever since the ritual she could feel the way it seemed to exacerbate her negative emotions and made them more difficult to shake off. She and Scott had talked about it once and he had amazed her by having already realized that being around their friends, focusing on the people they cared about and the positive emotions of the bonds between them, helped.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a low growl. "Back up there a sec, I second that thought." They turned to watch as Aiden stalked up to Lydia, Ethan trailing quietly behind him, his eyes unsubtly scanning the group and then the parking lot beyond them. When his eyes finally stopped roaming, Allison followed his gaze to where Danny was just getting out of his car. Meanwhile, Aiden had come up to Lydia and was doing his best to loom over her. "Why didn't you tell any of us you were going? It could've been dangerous and Stilinski isn't exactly much of a defence."

"Hey!" Stiles protested.

Lydia, completely unaffected by the attempted looming, gave him a scathing look. "Stiles visited him twice without problem and if Harris had wanted any of us dead, it would've been him."

"Yeah, besides we had no way of knowing about the wyvvern," Stiles added. Lydia transferred her glare to him for a moment.

"Uh, what's a wyvvern?"

Allison turned behind her to smile at Isaac as he approached the group from behind her. A small smile appeared on his face when he looked at her.

"It's sort of like a dragon, but smaller and less magical," Stiles answered. He blinked and looked back to Scott. "Oh, sorry, I may have forgotten to mention that part."

Scott stared at his friend with wide eyes. "Wait, that thing you've been telling me about all morning with the wizard: that actually happened?!"

Stiles froze. He blinked at Scott. "Gee, I'm so glad you were paying attention to me, buddy," he said sarcastically then threw his hands up. "What did you think I was describing? Some sort of weird dream I had?!"

"Er..." Scott looked sheepish for a moment before frowning and looking to Isaac. "But we ran all over that area yesterday and couldn't even find the cottage let alone see any small, sort-of dragon thing."

Allison's eyebrows rose at that revelation. She'd wondered if Scott was looking into any of what Stiles had told them at Sunday dinner.

"And it didn't occur to you to - oh I don't know - ask the person who'd already been there twice?!"

"Besides, Merlin definitely said he was a sorcerer not a wizard," a voice said into the ensuing silence. They all turned to Danny, who was now standing just behind Stiles – conspicuously on the opposite side of the group to Ethan.

"You know, I'm not sure he actually said how there was a difference," said Stiles with a slight frown.

Danny just shrugged. "He didn't, but he did seem pretty adamant about being a sorcerer. Maybe it has something to do with the wyvvern. Or cutting off all the Harry Potter jokes before they started." He looked over the group and waved with his left hand while his right hand was holding his backpack in place over his shoulder. "Hi everyone, so I guess this is my official introduction to the not-human club? Oh, except for Allison, I think."

Allison smirked at him. "Yup, still human here."

Danny grinned and nodded. "Good." He looked at his watch. "Now, in other news, the bell is going to ring in, like, three minutes so for those of us who don't have super speed, we should probably head inside."

Allison looked at her watch and panicked. "Oh my god, he's right. We need to get going." Beside her, she saw Lydia hand her bag over to Aiden and toss her hair over her shoulder artfully before turning to strut into the school.

* * *

Merlin wandered through Beacon Hills, taking in the scenery and people. It wasn't large by modern standards, but Merlin still sometimes had to remind himself of that. Had to remind himself that the great grand metropolis Camelot had at first seemed to him - castle looming in the distance as more people than he'd ever seen in one place rushed by him – was tiny in comparison to what was now considered a metropolis.

Sometimes, he loved it: this fast-paced, dynamic modern world. Sometimes, he hated it. Hated how loud and fast it was as it moved forward like a bolt of crazed lightening, how people had stopped looking around themselves and no longer peered into the world, but contented themselves with looking at its surface. Forgotten what was once common sense and called it fairy tales and superstition. Called it myth.

Merlin followed the weak tendrils of familiar power through the streets. He highly doubted anyone but him would've been able to feel them and he might not have noticed them at all had he not been looking. The three children he'd met yesterday had listened to his stories with rapt attention, probably not even realizing how much of themselves they were giving away by doing so. Danny might have been sceptical had the other two not been with him, but Stiles and Lydia had felt the truth of his words in their souls. As a Spark and a Fae, they could do no less. Lydia's powers were still new and maturing and Merlin would have to think on what to do about that - contact a few old friends. But Stiles...

The spark inside Stiles shone like the most dazzling firefly even obscured by the haze of darkness as it was. That the boy had managed to go thus far undetected and had for so long remained ignorant and untrained was miraculous. And utterly inexcusable.

Finally, Merlin found himself standing in front of the veterinarian's office. He pushed his magic outward, using it to feel the inside of the building. He felt one human life and several smaller, animal lifeforms. One of them was feline. It was dying. Merlin closed his eyes and let his magic linger on her form, quietly easing her aches and feeling her relax. He knew better than to attempt to prevent the inevitable, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least ease her sleep.

A bell above the door jingled as Merlin entered the building. The waiting room was silent. He stepped up to the counter and felt the wood. It was mountain ash, he realized: rowan wood. Used to keep away magical and supernatural influences. He was definitely in the right place.

"I'll be right there!" a voice called out from the back room.

Merlin looked up from his inspection and then opened the physical barrier, sliding through the invisible one as easily as he would through a beaded curtain. It wasn't actually designed to keep humans out anyway. He closed it behind him and walked into the back room. A dark-skinned man in a long white lab coat was standing at a long work table carefully measuring out a white powder into capsules.

Merlin leaned against a wooden shelf and let his magic flow out from him. The man stiffened and carefully placed his instruments down on the table. Then he looked directly at Merlin with a calm curiosity that gave nothing away.

"Hello, how can I help you?" he asked, his voice a bland smoothness that was almost soothing.

Merlin grinned at him. "Hello Doctor Deaton, I was told you would know a bit about what's been going on around here lately."

The veterinarian frowned. "Who are you?" he asked after a few moments.

Merlin felt into the air around him and gave it a little spin with his magic. He could feel the magic turning his eyes golden as the slight wind ruffled his hair on its way around the room. The other man's eyes widened. "You shouldn't need to ask me that, druid."

"Emrys," Doctor Deaton whispered in awe. He recovered quickly and schooled his expression, although there was some worry in his eyes now. "What brings you to Beacon Hills?"

Merlin shrugged. "An old friend. But that's not why I'm here. I want to ask you about the Spark, Stiles Stilinski. He said you were the one, who told him what he was."

The doctor nodded carefully. "Yes, I did. He had a lot of potential."

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Had?"

Deaton sighed. "A former emissary turned against the ways of the druids and became a Darach. In order to gain power she used the rites of the triple death. Among her last sacrifices were Stiles' father and the parents of two of his friends. To save their parents' lives, the three of them performed a substitution ritual. You have no doubt noticed the darkness that now resides around his spark...?"

"I have."

"It's a result of the ritual. That same darkness now prevents me from training him as an emissary." He paused. "It would be inadvisable to teach him to use his spark under the circumstances."

Merlin frowned. It wasn't entirely true... nor entirely untrue either. It was, however, a very druidic response; druids didn't like darkness, never had. Darkness brought out darker, more violent emotions, which, in turn, created more dark, violent emotions until they spiralled out of control in a sea of chaos that magic then became and that sparked its own evils. Like the Purge. The powers of life and death always demanded a sacrifice. Perhaps it was good that Stiles had learned this lesson early.

Merlin took a deep breath. "Does he know?"

"Yes. He came to me to ask me to train him so that he could protect his father and his friends. He was deeply upset when I told him."

Merlin nodded. He could well understand the desire to protect at all costs. "Tell me about the ritual," he said.

* * *

Lunchtime found Stiles following Scott outside to eat on the lacrosse bleachers. It was a beautiful day despite the chilly breeze: the sun a bright globe hanging high in the picture-perfect blue sky with only a few fluffy white marshmallow clouds in sight. The tension Stiles had carried all day evaporated away at the first touch of breeze on his cheek as the annoyance he'd felt towards his friend eased from his heart.

The jealousy had been an ugly beast that had burrowed its way in from the moment he'd heard Scott say he'd gone running with Isaac and hadn't told Stiles about it, hadn't asked him to join them. They were supposed to be an inseparable duo! Batman and Robin! Best bros did not just abandon their other halves, not ever.

Except...

As the sun warmed his skin and the breeze ruffled his hair, Stiles realized that through all his talking and planning with Lydia and Danny, it hadn't even occurred to him to call Scott and invite him along with them to visit Harris. Once upon a time that would've been automatic: his mind would've immediately jumped from 'ooh, something cool' to 'call Scott'. When had that changed?

They climbed to the top of the bleachers and sat down. Stiles plonked his bag beside him, but didn't open it right away. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into the breeze's caress. Beside him, he could hear Scott digging his lunch out of his bag.

"What happened to us?" Stiles whispered. He heard Scott pause in his movements and opened his eyes, looking into his friend's curious expression. "It used to be the two of us and then everyone else: Us against Them. But now... now it's, like, US and Other People against Them. Only it's not really Us anymore, but You and Me and Other People around us and between us and it's like there's no room for Us anymore-"

"Stiles."

Stiles fell silent and looked down at his hands before sighing and looking back at his friend. Scott was looking at him with amused, puppy eyes and a half-smile on his lips.

"We're still Us, Stiles," Scott continued. "We'll always be Us. Only, now I think we're more than just Us. We- we're a Group." He looked away, staring into the distance thoughtfully. "A pack," he whispered and then looked back to Stiles, his eyes wide with realization. "We're a Pack."

Stiles swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I'll think you'll have a bit of a hard time selling that to Allison's dad," he tried to joke.

Scott grinned. "Yeah well... work in progress, right?"

"A lot of progress." And then, because Stiles couldn't help himself – couldn't keep that tiny voice inside his heart silent. "We're still bros though, right?"

Scott blinked. "Of course. Why wouldn't we be?" He cocked his head to the side and then looked over towards the school and smiled with delight. Stiles followed his gaze and saw Allison and Isaac approaching with Lydia, who looked annoyed at having to cross the lacrosse field in her heels. "It's just that now we've got more people to call our own. I-I don't think that's a bad thing. Do you?"

Stiles watched as Allison and Lydia suddenly began an animated discussion across a hapless-looking Isaac. Isaac must've quickly realized he was in the way and stepped back in order for the girls to converge seamlessly ahead of him as though they hadn't noticed he'd gone. Stiles saw him shake his head and follow behind them. His people, Stiles though, mulling the idea around in his mind. His Pack. Warmth settled around the hollow space within his chest and he smiled.

"Yeah, it's totally a good thing," he finally said. He bumped shoulders with Scott and raised an eyebrow at him when their eyes met. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise," Scott deadpanned. "My great wisdom has been well-hidden until such a time that it was needed."

Stiles snorted. "Sure, you keep telling yourself that. So you wanna go visit Harris with me after school today oh wise alpha of Beacon Hills?"

Scott made a face. "Can't have to work and then my dad wants to take me out to dinner and mom's making me go. Tomorrow?"

"Lacrosse practice, Scotty."

"Oh, right. My mom works nights tomorrow though, so maybe after practice?"

"You've forgotten about the chemistry assignment haven't you?"

"Er..."

"Although I suppose we could always ask Harris to help- wait, what am I saying? This is _Harris_ we're talking about. Nevermind. Hey, but Danny's a total chem wiz and he's one of us now."

They were interrupted by Lydia, Allison and Isaac's arrival. Aiden and Ethan appeared ten minutes later and Danny came by half-way through lunch. The bag of oreos Stiles took out of his bag was devoured by the time the bell rang for class again and he couldn't bring himself to feel disappointed.

* * *

Mywanwy set down just at the outskirts of the forest, as close to the glowing lights of the village as either of them dared to come. Neither one had any desire to spook the residents, many of whom no longer believed as their ancestors once did. Merlin slid off her back and whispered a word of thanks before setting off on foot the rest of the way while she slipped into the cover of the trees. They'd set out at twilight and now it was full dark, not that Merlin needed anything more than the stars to light his way. So long as there was land beneath his feet and trees and birds, he would never lose his way. This land wasn't his, but he'd been to America often enough since its discovery that it felt like visiting an old friend.

It took him nearly an hour to arrive at his destination. The small house showed its years, though even in the dark he could tell there'd been a fresh coat of paint put on. The flowers growing along the front were a little different as well and the curtains in the windows were new. But the aura that surrounded the house was the same.

Merlin knocked on the door. It was late, but he knew the house's owner didn't keep regular hours. From inside the house he heard some shuffling and a clanging noise as something was put down. Then there was silence and, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the curtain shift to the side for a moment.

Eventually the door opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties with long, straight dark hair and piercing dark eyes. There was an eagle feather woven into the strands of her hair and a necklace made of beads and bear claws around her neck, which strangely didn't look out-of-place next to her skinny blue jeans and LA Lakers sweatshirt. She stood in the doorway and stared at him wordlessly.

Merlin felt the power in her aura – so different from his as it was intimately tied to the land around him. He frowned. "Does Elsu Night Wanderer still live here?" he asked.

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. "My grandfather died many years ago," she answered in a slightly husky voice.

Merlin froze. This... he hadn't been expecting. "Oh."

The woman observed him for a few moments and then snorted. "You must be Merlin – Emrys as your people call you. My grandfather told me about you. No other would possibly be surprised to find a man who would've been one hundred and twenty-six last summer no longer alive."

He blinked. Had it really been that long? A wave of sorrow swept over him as he remembered his old friend. He'd first met Elsu when the other was a young man courting the woman who would one day be his wife. He had enjoyed Merlin's company and Merlin had enjoyed his. When Merlin visited they would talk well into the night and trade stories of their lives, their peoples and their lands. Elsu had been a mostly quiet man with an even temper and a smile never far from his lips – though after several glasses of wine he became just as talkative as Merlin.

But the pain of losing a friend was nothing new to Merlin. He took a deep breath and pushed it to the side: he would mourn him later.

"You have taken his place?" he said to the woman. A question, but only out of politeness. He could feel that she had.

"Yes," she answered anyway. "My name is Sanuye Grass Whisperer."

"Then I suppose it is you I now seek, Sanuye."

She frowned. "Why?"

Merlin held out the bottle he'd been carrying – an offering. "I seek your counsel and your guidance."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She took the offered bottle and inspected it. It was made of thick, heavy glass, the top sealed with wax. There was no label. She glanced back to Merlin. "Is this...?"

"Fairy wine," he answered with a smile.

Sanuye's eyes lit up with excitement. "Then come in. I'll get the glasses. Though I have no idea how you think I might possibly be able to counsel you of all people."

Merlin followed her in, taking in the interior of the small house. It was nostalgically similar to what he remembered, yet different enough that even had he not known Elsu was dead, he would've known he no longer lived here. He'd never owned a television, for a start, let alone anything like the large flatscreen monstrosity Merlin could see taking up nearly an entire wall of the tiny living room to his right.

He sat down at small oak table in the kitchen and ran a hand along the familiar wood. "Actually, I'd like to begin by telling you a story. I'm assuming you know about Beacon Hills?"

She frowned as she set a wineglass in front of him. "It's the town on the other side of the forest." She paused. "It's cursed."

He nodded. "Yes, it is. And that's the start of the story."


End file.
